Date:         Sat, 24 Aug 1996 12:18:47 -0400
From: <Iocaste@AOL.COM>

First and foremost:  Eternal gratitude and Cadbury Creme Eggs to Beta-Readers
Luciana, Eileen, and Leslie, for all your advice and support.  Thank you so
much for taking the time to help me out.  You guys rock!

Disclaimer: no copyright infringement intended, no profit, not mine, Tri
Star, don't sue.

The events chronicled herein take place soon after the 2nd season episode
Killer Instinct; that is, in the aftermath of Lacroix's revelation that the
reports of his death have been greatly exaggerated.  Feel free to send me
comments at iocaste@aol.com.


                                             Fathers and Sons
                                            (Part One of Nine)
                                               by Iocaste@aol.com 


       "Shakespeare had a sister ... alas, she never wrote a word."
                         -- Virginia Woolf, _A Room of One's Own_

       <The scene is hazy, distorted.>
       <I see myself, awake in the middle of the day, when I should be
sleeping.  I see myself, bored and wishing night would fall, so that I can go
outside.  To hunt.>
       <He is asleep on the pallet next to mine.  I watch him, waiting for
some movement, some revealing twitch that may hint at what he dreams.>
       <There is nothing.  He is still and silent as stone.>
       <Our trunks lay scattered around the room.  We have recently returned
to Paris, and we have not yet begun to arrange our belongings.>
       <I approach one box, the largest, the one which contains his things.
 I watch myself, as my hand reaches for it, tentatively raising the lid.  It
has been sixty years, and I am still unsure what, precisely, it contains.>
       <I glance back at his pallet.  He has not moved.>
       <Clothing.  At first, that is all the trunk seems to hold.  I begin to
remove it, slowly, smiling at the myriad of styles and periods represented
... not much has been saved from his lives throughout the centuries, but
towards the bottom the cloth becomes older, more frayed, the cut and
appearance almost ... ancient, like what I have seen in paintings and
sculpture of other times and places.  I am familiar with a few of these; he
has told me, on occasion, of incidents or amusing adventures he has had in
previous lives.  But more are a mystery to me.>
       <A faint glitter, half buried under a red sash.>
       <I catch my breath.  I cannot even fully see what is there, but
something about it ... a cold feeling, a knife in my stomach.  I reach for
it, lift it from its bed of silk with reverent hands.>
       <A necklace.  A lovely, heavy pendant.  A cameo, a child's portrait,
so beautiful and delicately formed I ache to look at it.  And I know, with
deep conviction, that what I hold in my hand is of a terrible importance.>
       <"Janette ...." a raspy voice calls.  I spin around, the cameo falling
from my fingers.  He snatches it out of the air with lightning speed,
standing inches from me now, and staring at me with eyes of vicious green.>

       She sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath.  She could feel the
sheen of blood-sweat dotting her brow, gripped her covers to stop her
trembling.  She reached for the glass on her nightstand and took a long,
calming swallow.
       Half-forgotten, why had she dreamed of that now?  Why now, after all
this time?

                                               End Part One


                                            Fathers and Sons
                                           (Part Two of Nine)


       They stood at the bar, staring at each other, their eyes cold as ice.
       No longer bound by mortal rules, Lacroix said.  No longer subject to
their laws.
       Not mortal law, Nick said.  A higher one.  A standard of right.  And a
standard of wrong.
       Janette watched them silently, her gaze gliding first to one, then to
the other.
       "I have returned, Nicholas.  Be grateful.  I am the only one who can
save you from yourself."
       "Save me?" The words came from low in Nick's throat. "Because of you,
I am damned."
       "Damned?"  A smile hovered at the corners of Lacroix's lips.  "No,
Nicholas.  I do not relinquish my own claim so easily."
       "You have no choice.  I have renounced you.  I renounce all of
_this_."  With a flick of his wrist, he indicated the Raven and its immortal
inhabitants.
       Janette's eyes closed slowly, and reopened.  She said nothing.
       Lacroix growled.  "I've left you alone too long, Nicholas.  You have
begun to believe that you have a destiny independent of me.  But you are
_mine_.  True," -- and his gaze flicked over Nick's body -- "you are rather
pathetic at the moment.  Hardly recognizable as belonging to me, really.  But
once my greatest creation."
       He took a long, smooth draught from the glass that dangled from his
fingers and leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper.  "What kind of
artist would I be if I left such work to rot and decay?"
       "I will not allow this."  Nick gritted his teeth.  "You will not force
me out of this life."
       Lacroix arched a brow.  "Well.  We shall see, won't we?"  He held his
goblet under Nick's nose.  "In the meantime, why don't we share a drink?"
       Nick spun angrily away.  "I won't let you win this time," he grated as
he left the club.
       Lacroix and Janette watched his exit in silence.
       "A confused boy, our Nicholas," Lacroix murmured when he was gone.
       Janette lowered her eyes.  "You were cruel to him."
       "Some lessons are harder than others."
       "He will not submit easily."
       "He never has."  He drained his glass, set it on the bar.  "And he's
been on his own far too long.  Happily, I have returned to reclaim him."
       "I see."  Her expression remained frozen.  "And how do you intend to
accomplish that?"
       He reached out, brushed a knuckle across the smooth skin of her cheek.
 She shivered.
       "With your help, my dear," he said softly.  "I will accomplish it ...
with your help.
       "Now, tell me about this 'Natalie.'"

       "Natalie, where's the report on that John Doe they brought in last
night?" Grace asked, flipping through the files on the desk.
       "On top of the cabinet," Natalie answered, not looking up from her
microscope.
       "Got it."  She opened the folder and began to skim the contents.
 Keeping her voice casual, she murmured, "So how's Nick?"
       Natalie swung around so quickly she nearly knocked over a rack of test
tubes.  "What?"
       Grace's eyes remained fixed on the papers in her hands.  "I haven't
seen him around much.  Just wondering how he is."
       "You know, I think it's your subtlety that I admire most about you."
       Grace pursed her lips.  "I had intended to engage you in conversation
and then gradually work my way to the subject at hand, but you haven't been
all that talkative lately.  So, I opted for the direct approach."
       "I see."  Natalie removed her surgical gloves.  "Well, you can set
your mind at ease.  To the best of my knowledge, Nick is fine."
       "Delighted to hear it.  And yourself?"
       "To the best of my knowledge, I'm fine too."
       "Natalie ...."
       She rolled her eyes.  "Look.  Nick and I -- we've both been ... busy."
       "Busy."
       "Yes, busy."  She sighed.  "I appreciate the concern, Grace, but the
fact is, there's just not much to talk about.  Nick's had some -- problems,
recently.  It's understandable that he wouldn't be able to come by as much as
he used to."
       Grace's eyes darkened with sympathy.  "Who are you trying to
convince?" she asked gently.  Natalie's mouth turned down in a bitter
half-smile.
       "I don't know," she answered.
       "There's something between you two, isn't there?"
       She shook her head.  "I don't know that, either."
       "Natalie," came a voice from the doorway.  Both women swung around,
startled.
       "Detective Knight!" Grace exclaimed.  "We were just talking about
you."
       Nick offered her a slight grin.  "You know what they say.  Speak of
the Devil ...."
       "Are you saying you're the Devil, Detective?"
       The amused expression faded from his face.  "There are similarities."
       Natalie's eyes narrowed in obvious annoyance.  Grace cleared her
throat.
       "Well, I need to get going." She touched Natalie's shoulder.  "I'll
see you tomorrow, okay?"
       She nodded.  "Goodnight."
       "'Night, Detective."  She gathered her things and left.  Natalie
stared at Nick.
       "Feeling a bit morbid, are we?"
       He shrugged.  "Maybe."  He paused.  "How have you been, Nat?"
       She stared.  "Oh ... fine."
       He forced a rather desperate smile onto his face.  "So, have you come
up with any new treatments for me?"
       She was silent for a moment.  "I was beginning to get the impression
that none of that concerned you anymore."
       His eyes widened.  "Why?"
       She threw up her hands.  "Oh, I don't know.  Lacroix comes back into
your life, and suddenly I never see you -- makes sense that you'd changed
your mind, doesn't it?"
       "No."  He caught her arm.  "I haven't changed my mind.  I couldn't
come by ...." He trailed off and she pulled herself free of his grip.
       "I know.  You've had some major adjustments to make."
       That drew a harsh laugh from him.  "Yes, I've been 'adjusting.'"  He
turned away from her.  "Lacroix and I -- there is a _bond_ between us."  His
voice burned with self-loathing.  "I'm sliding back.  I can feel it.  The
hunger ... the violence ... That's why I haven't come around.  He's winning,
Natalie."
       "Lacroix."
       "Yesss," Nick hissed.  "Lacroix.  I'm -- becoming the way I was.
 Before."
       She remained still for a long moment, then let out a breath.  "You
shouldn't have stayed away for so long.  I could have tried to help you.  And
-- I was worried about you."
       "You were right to worry."
       Natalie fought the sinking feeling in her chest.  "What do you mean?"
she asked, fearing the answer.
       He swung back to face her.  "I mean that I feel the vampire now more
than I have in almost a century."

       <What kind of artist would I be if I left such work to rot and decay?>
       The words echoed in Janette's mind as she absently ran a finger around
the rim of her glass.  She closed her eyes in an attempt to concentrate on
the deafening music, to allow it to seep into her being and drown out all
thought, all feeling.
       That the attempt was unsuccessful hardly surprised her.
       <I have returned to reclaim him.>
       There was a warm brush on her arm, and she sensed a heartbeat inches
away.  She opened her eyes.
       "Hello," a man said.  He was young, perhaps in his mid-twenties,
attractive and looking at her warmly.  "Can I buy you a drink?"
       Janette held up her glass, still half-full.  "I have not yet finished
this one."
       "Oh."  She watched, fascinated, as the blood crept under the skin of
his face to stain his cheeks red.  "Would you like to dance?"
       "No, thank you."  She could see the pulse that beat in his neck,
almost hear the pounding as his heart pushed his blood through his body.
       "I -- I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to -- bother you."  He began to turn
away.
       <Once my greatest creation ....>
       "Please don't go," she said suddenly.  "I am Janette.  And you are?"
       His grin almost swallowed up his face.  "David.  I'm David."
       "It's a pleasure to meet you, David."
       "Oh no," he assured her, his eyes caressing her face.  "The pleasure
is all mine.  Do you -- uh, do you come here ... a lot?"
       Her lips twitched.  "Quite frequently, yes."
       "Oh.  I never have, before.  I don't go to clubs much.  But tonight
--" He broke off.
       "Go on.  Why is tonight unusual?"
       "Nothing, exactly.  I don't have much time to ... meet people.  My
work -- well, it keeps me very busy.  And I thought, if I went to --
someplace like this -- I might find someone ... nice."  He blushed.  "You --
you're very beautiful."
       The hard, powerful rock song ended and was replaced by a slow,
melancholy ballad.
       "Are you sure you wouldn't like to dance?" he asked.  She smiled and
set her glass down on the bar.
       "Why not?" she said as she stepped into his arms.
       And later, as they stood in one of the back rooms, her fangs gently
piercing his throat, she could feel the intensity of his desire for her, the
pleasure he took in her presence, his utter happiness that she was with him
now, making love to him.  And he gasped in delight even as she drained his
life away.

                                            End Part Two

                                              Fathers and Sons
                                           (Part Three of Nine)


       It was just after sundown when Nick arrived at the police station to
begin his shift.
       "Hi, Schank," Nick greeted his partner as he slid into his chair.
 Schanke did not respond -- in fact, he did not appear to even notice Nick's
arrival.
       "Hello," Nick said again.  He waved his hand in front of his partner's
face.  Schanke jerked.
       "Oh, man, I'm sorry, I didn't see you."
       "You didn't see me?" A slight grin touched his features.  "I hope this
isn't an example of your well-trained powers of observation."
       Schanke shifted uncomfortably.  "Very funny.  I'm a little distracted,
all right?"
       "You've been 'a little distracted' for the past several days.  Come
on, Schank, what's this about?"
       "Nothing!  Can't a guy have his own thoughts without being jumped on?"
       Nick raised his hands in surrender.  "Okay, okay.  Keep your secrets.
 I won't pry."
       "Thank you."
       The door to the Captain's office opened and Cohen stuck her head.  She
fixed Schanke with a piercing glare.
       "Detective!" she barked.  "Where's that report on the Willis case you
promised me yesterday?"
       Nick was actually able to see each individual bead of sweat as it
popped out on his partner's face.
       "The Willis report?" Schanke echoed.  "Right.  The Willis report.  I'm
-- I'm just putting the finishing touches on it now, just want to make sure
it's perfect, you know --"
       Cohen rolled her eyes.  "By the end of today, Detective," she cut him
off before disappearing back into her office.  Schanke moaned and dropped his
head into his hands.
       "Oh, man.  I completely forgot about that case!  Cohen is going to
have me working extra shifts for the rest of the year ...."
       Nick looked at him curiously.  "You really are preoccupied, aren't
you?"
       Schanke leaned forward and his voice dropped to a whisper.  "All
right, I'll tell you.  But you've got to swear you won't reveal what I'm
about to say to a single living soul."
       It was so tempting at that moment to tell Schanke that even Schanke
himself wasn't revealing anything to a single living soul, but Nick
refrained.  "I swear, I swear," he promised instead.
       "Okay."  Schanke looked around to assure himself no one was listening.
 "It's Myra."
       "Oh, Schank," Nick said disgustedly.  "She didn't find your stash of
Playboys again, did she?"
       "No, no," Schanke interrupted hastily.  "And keep it down, will you?
 No, this is big."  He stared down at the pencil he twirled in his fingers.
 "Myra thinks she might be pregnant."
       After the initial shock passed, a huge grin spread across Nick's face.
 "Well, that's wonderful!"  He got to his feet.  "Hey, everybody --" he began
loudly.
       "Nick!" Schanke yelped, yanking him back into his chair.  "You
_promised_.  Nobody, but nobody, can know about this."
       Nick's mouth quirked.  "How long do you think you can keep it a
secret, Schank?"
       "We don't know for sure yet.  Myra's going to the doctor in a few
days."
       He punched Schanke on the arm.  "Congratulations, Daddy."
       "Yeah, right." Schanke sounded distinctly unenthused.
       "What's wrong?  Aren't you happy?"
       "Yeah, sure ... it's just that -- I barely have enough time to see my
daughter.  If there were _two_ of them -- and then there's clothes, and toys,
and another college fund .... "
       "You'll find some way to make it work," Nick assured him.
       "Easy for you to say.  I don't see you trading in that Caddy for a
station wagon."
       "Maybe I'm not cut out for marriage."
       "Yeah, that's what every guy thinks, before some woman gets her hooks
into him."  He sighed.  "Look, can we just talk about something else?"
       Nick bit back a grin and tried to sound sympathetic.  "Sure, Schank,
sure."
       "So how's Janette?" Schanke asked in an abrupt change of subject.
 Nick's brow furrowed.
       "She's fine, I guess.  Why do you ask?"
       "I was just concerned, after last night."
       "Last night?"
       "Yeah, at The Raven."  Schanke frowned at his blank look.  "You mean
you didn't hear?"
       Nick instantly became serious.  "Hear about what?"
       "Some guy disappeared from her club on Saturday.  At least, that was
the last time anyone saw him.  So last night a bunch of cops from Missing
Persons interviewed her staff -- apparently she danced with the guy, so they
gave her kind of a hard time."  He chuckled.  "Although not, I hear, as hard
as she gave them.  Boy, that ex-girlfriend of yours is one cool customer --
Nick?  Nick, you can't just leave in the middle of your shift!  What do you
expect me to tell Cohen?"

       <"Janette ...." a raspy voice calls.  I spin around, the cameo falling
from my fingers.  He snatches it out of the air with lightning speed,
standing inches from me now, and staring at me with eyes of vicious green.>
       <"Lacroix."  My throat tightens unbearably; I cannot force another
word from my lips.>
       <"So you were curious, were you, my dear?"  His voice is low,
controlled, yet still I shiver with fear.  "Perfectly natural, I suppose,
that you should begin to wonder."  Rising now, beginning to vibrate with
rage.  "Perfectly natural that you would wait for an opportunity, and then
pick through my belongings like a common thief!">
       <Quick, so quick that even my inhuman eyesight cannot distinguish the
movement, his arm arrows towards my throat.  Grip tight enough to snap the
neck of a mortal, he lifts me, one-handed, shaking me as he might a dog which
had displeased him.  I gasp for air I do not need as I clutch feebly in a
futile attempt to pry his fingers free.>
       <"I plucked you from a brothel," he growls, "I gave you the greatest
gift the world has ever known.  I _made_ you, and _this_ is how you repay
me?">
       <"No," I manage to whisper, though the effort causes me no small
amount of pain.  "No, that was not my intent.  Please ....">
       <He stares at me for a long moment, and suddenly I am free, falling to
the floor in an awkward huddle.  I stay down, not risking more of his anger.>
       <"This incident will _not_ be repeated," he tells me.>
       <"I swear."  The words irritate my throat and I cough.  "I swear it,
Lacroix.  I regret ....">
       <His eyes slowly return to their normal colour.  "Good.  Perhaps
something has been gained after all.">
       <And then, from an unfamiliar place deep inside me, comes a tiny burst
of courage that lasts just long enough for me to ask, "The little girl in the
necklace ... who is she?">
       <His eyes flare and I brace myself to flee.  But to my surprise, he
does not attack.  Instead, he answers in a harsh voice, "She is your sister.
 And we will _never_ speak of her again.">

       It was early yet, and the club was just beginning to awaken.  Miklos
stood at the bar, polishing glasses and carefully hanging them in overhead
racks.  Only a few patrons, both human and immortal, dotted the tables.  The
music was unusually quiet and slow and sad.
       Nick spotted Janette sitting in a plush corner booth, deep in
conversation with one of the human members of her staff.  Demonstrating a
clear awareness of his presence, she did not so much as glance in his
direction as she waved the waitress away.
       "Nicolas," she greeted him as he slid into the seat next to hers.  "I
did not expect to see you here again so --"
       He cut her off, capturing her mouth in a brief kiss. "What happened
here yesterday?" he asked, his tongue tracing her lips.
       "Ah, yes."  She pulled back.  "'Official police business.'  Tell me,
are there no homicides for you to play with that you must concern yourself
with trifles?"
       He did not take the situation so lightly.  "Not a trifle, Janette.
 And possibly a homicide."
       "Poor Nicolas.  Always looking at the dark side.  And never able to
appreciate it."
       "Was it one of us?  Someone becoming careless?"
       She shrugged.  "Possibly, I suppose.  Though I doubt it."  She let out
a low, throaty laugh.  "Not all of us are so ... ascetic as you.  Some of us
must indulge ourselves once in awhile."
       "That 'indulgence' was a danger to us all."
       She looked away, petulant.  "And what if it was?  The police have
investigated, they found nothing, and they will continue elsewhere."  Now her
eyes gleamed with amusement.  "I made certain of that."
       "And if one had been a resistor?"
       "But none were, Nicolas.  And had they been, there would have been
other ways of dealing with the problem."
       He shook his head slowly.  "I've never seen you like this.  Usually
you're the first one to challenge any threat to the Community."
       "And usually you are the one taking the risks."  She traced a finger
down his cheek.  "An interesting reversal, _non_?"
       His eyes roamed over her face, taking in the bright eyes, the
un-vampiric flush to her skin.  "I heard -- you danced with the man, before
he disappeared."
       "True," she conceded.  "A very unusual mortal, that one."
       "Do you know who killed him?"
       "No," she said flatly.  "And I wouldn't worry about it.  It's taken
care of.  Stay out of it."
       He felt his scalp prickle with apprehension.  "You _do_ know
something," he accused her quietly.  "It was Lacroix, wasn't it?"
       She stared at him in genuine surprise.  "What makes you think that?"
       He continued as if she hadn't spoken.  "You chose his victim, you
danced with him, and then you led him to Lacroix, like a lamb to slaughter.
 It wouldn't be the first time."  He gripped her arms and shook her.  "That's
how it happened, isn't it?"
       "I don't know what you're talking about," she told him coolly,
disentangling herself from him.  "And if I were you, I would be more occupied
with ... other mortals in whom Lacroix may have taken an interest."
       He tensed in sudden fear.  "What are you saying?"
       She sighed, and the defiant energy she had displayed moments ago
seemed to drain away.  "It would not be the first time he has avenged himself
on your companions."
       "What has he done?"  His voice shook with intensity.  "Janette, please
... what did he say to you?"
       "He hasn't said anything.  But -- he did ask me about your coroner."
       "Natalie?"  If Lacroix had found out about their work .... "What did
you tell him?"
       "Nothing."  She caught his skeptical look.  "It's the truth," she
insisted.  "We were interrupted by one of my staff, there was a problem that
needed my attention.  When I returned, he was gone.  But he will be back,"
she added when she saw him relax slightly.  "We both know that."
       "You have to help me, Janette."  His eyes met hers.  "You have to
promise me ... don't tell him anything."
       "Nicolas --"
       "_Please_.  Say that she's a casual friend, that I barely know her."
       "He's seen the watch she gave you.  You know he won't believe that."
       "Then tell him you don't know!  But you can't, you _can't_, tell him
she's helping me look for a cure."
       "All right."  She nodded slightly.  "All right, Nicolas.  I won't say
anything.  But if you want her to stay alive, stay away from her."
       "I can't let anything happen to her."  He looked at his hands,
clenching his fingers as though he could see blood on them.  "I can't let the
evil in me destroy her."
       Janette watched him for a minute.  Then she asked in an odd voice:
 "What must you think of me, I wonder?  If you think yourself so terrible,
despite your efforts to regain your mortality, what am I to you?"
       He looked at her in confusion.  "This isn't about you, Janette.  This
is between me and Lacroix."  He dropped a kiss on her lips, never noticing
how she stiffened beneath his touch.  "Thanks for your help."  And he was
gone, leaving her staring after him.
       <"She is your sister.  And we will _never_ speak of her again.">
       "No," Janette murmured.  "It is never about me, is it?"

                                         End Part Three

                                            Fathers and Sons
                                           (Part Four of Nine)


       Silent, cold, windowless.  An odd friendship it was, that its most
important moments occurred in a morgue.
       Nick had never been so grateful for that fact.  The isolation was
probably the only reason Natalie was still breathing.
       "Hello, Nat," he greeted her, leaning down to brush his lips across
her cheek.  She glanced up from her computer and smiled.
       "Hello, you.  I knew you wouldn't be able to resist my vitamin
milkshakes for long --"
       "We need to talk."
       The amusement faded from her face.  "That sounds ominous."
       He sat on the edge of the desk.  "Lacroix has been asking Janette
about you."
       "Oh."  She pulled her hands from the keyboard and let them rest in her
lap.  "Oh, I see."
       "You need to get out of Toronto.  I can help you, find you a new --"
       She looked up at him, slightly dazed.  "What?"  She shook her head.
 "No, no, I'm not going anywhere."
       "At this point, you don't have a choice.  I'll talk to some friends
who can get you set up somewhere else."
       "No," she told him, more emphatically this time.  "I'm not running."
       Nick took a breath and tried to ignore the panic that skittered across
his spine.  "You're not thinking clearly."  He reached for her, but she slid
back.
       "Yes.  I am."  She stood, blindly moving away from him.  She collided
with the examining table and froze.
       Together they stared at the naked female body that lay stretched out
on its bed of steel.  Neither voiced what both envisioned: how easily it
could be Natalie's form replacing the poor soul on the table.
       Nick could feel his eyes burn inhumanly at the thought, and, by an act
of sheer will, forced the fire from their depths.
       "He might not come after me," Natalie said, and her voice was under
such tight control that Nick could barely hear the tremor.
       "You have no idea how dangerous he is," he told her.
       "You said he spoke to Janette.  Maybe she can steer him away, convince
him that I'm not worth his trouble."
       "Maybe," he bit out.  "Possibly.  It's not good enough.  You've got
his attention.  That's dangerous for any mortal."
       She tore her gaze from the body on the table as though no longer able
to bear the possibilities it suggested.  "My life is _here_.  I'm not like
you, Nick, I don't shed identities whenever the mood strikes."
       His eyes narrowed.  "Fine.  Then _I'll_ leave."
       She bit her lip against the sudden fear the suggestion wrought.  "If
you do, you'll just prove to him I'm a threat."
       She was right, of course.  Alternatives twisted through Nick's mind,
but none resulted in a guarantee of her safety.  Frustration boiled inside
him, heightening his senses until he could hear the fragile beating of her
heart, sense the warmth flowing just beneath the softness of her flesh.
 Unbidden, his teeth began to sharpen and project.
       He put a hand to his mouth and turned his face away.
       "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely.  She sighed.
       "It's not your fault, Nick."
       A growl rose low in his throat.  "Of course it's my fault!  He's doing
this to get to me, to twist the knife in me!  I knew the risks when we
started this -- you didn't!"
       An edge of exasperation crept into her voice.  "If anything -- happens
-- it'll be Lacroix's fault, not yours."
       His hands shot out and grasped hers urgently.  "Nat, he will kill you.
 And there is _nothing_ I can do to stop it."  He could feel the pulse in her
wrists stutter, then speed with her terror.  The blood would be flowing
quickly through her veins now; if he were to bite down sharply, she would
burst on his tongue like ripe fruit, the tang flooding his mouth and
trembling through his body until ....
       Appalled at his thoughts, he released her and stepped away.  "You have
to get out of Toronto.  It's your best chance."
       "_No_.  He's not my master, Nick.  He doesn't control me, and he's not
going to force me out the way he tried with you."
       "Natalie ... I can't protect you from him."  His eyes closed as though
he were in pain.  "I can _never_ protect anyone from him."
       She reached out to him.  "Nick --"
       "No!"  He pulled back abruptly.  "You've got to stay away from me.  If
you won't leave, at least ... stay away."
       Her jaw clenched.  "What about our work?"
       "I don't know, Nat.  I just -- I don't know."

       The craving gnawed at her.
       The sounds of The Raven, diminished to a faint murmur in this darkened
cellar, whispered, ghost-like, as she stared at the racks.  Rows of bottles
sat, winking, their natural gleam reduced to a dusky glow by a steady
collection of soot.  Their contents beckoned sharply, magnifying the almost
unbearable pangs, until she suspected that all the bottles in the world would
not soothe the hunger.
       She had a sudden, intense vision of smashing the bottles, letting
glass splinter and blood run freely, the taste of it filling her mouth, the
stench of it filling her nostrils, slippery on her skin, dank in her hair,
until she was covered in an indelible scarlet shroud, a shield that would
forever guard against the clawing emptiness.
       "Choosing a vintage for the evening?" a voice jolted her from her
fantasy.  "Allow me."
       She tensed but did not turn as Lacroix stepped forward and gracefully
plucked a bottle from its niche, blowing away the dust to reveal the label.
 "Splendid.  May I join you?"
       A brief pause before forcing her muscles to unclench.  "Of course,"
she told him smoothly.
       He produced two goblets.  "I took the liberty of bringing these down
with me.  I thought we might ... chat."  He opened the bottle and poured each
of them a glass.
       She sipped delicately at hers.  "It's excellent."
       "I would expect nothing less from your cellar."
 The corners of her lips turned up in a careful smile.  "I thought you might
appreciate the selection.  My club has become a ... center, for the
Community, so I must be careful in picking my stock."
       "Indeed," Lacroix murmured.
       "Perhaps -- you would like a tour?"
       "Another time."  He swallowed some of his own drink. "Regrettably, our
conversation of a few days ago was interrupted.  We were speaking of Nicholas
and his new acquaintances."
       "... I remember."
       He touched his fingertips to her bare shoulder.  "And do you remember
what I asked?"
       "You wanted to know about Natalie."
       "Yes."  He moved his hand so it rested lightly on her throat, just
brushing the hollow at its base.  "What is she to him?"
       Janette licked her lips.  "She is a medical examiner.  They often work
together, on his cases."
       "Is that all?"
       "They are friends."
       "And?"
       "She ... She may believe herself in love with him."
       Lacroix's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly.  "Come, my dear, let
us not be coy.  You do Nicholas no favours by remaining silent.  I only want
the best for him.  And you have always assisted me in that."

       <We conceal ourselves, as we have so often, in a darkened corner of
the Great Hall, settling in to watch the blond warrior dine.>
       <He takes a bit of meat, a sip of wine, trades a coarse joke with a
companion.>
       <"Will it be tonight?" I ask softly.>
       <"Perhaps," Lacroix answers.  I tremble with anticipation.  I have
never known him to prolong a kill for such a time, but I must admit, there
are unexpected pleasures here.  It has been exhilarating to carefully stalk
the handsome young knight, to come to understand his habits, his preferences
-- sometimes even his thoughts -- with such intimacy, knowing that I will
soon feel his blood shimmering inside me, as together Lacroix and I drain
him.  It has been over a century since I began my journey with Lacroix, and
almost as long since we renewed our bond by sharing prey in this manner.>
       <The knight finishes his meal and retires to his chamber.>
       <"Shall we follow him?"  My fangs descend eagerly.>
       <"Patience, my dear.">
       <We head back through the snake-like passages to our own quarters.  We
pass many a nobleman in the hallways, but perhaps they sense that we are not
of their kind, or perhaps they just feel the chill of our flesh, because all
keep their eyes steadily downward, not daring to look into our faces.>
       <"When will we strike, Lacroix?" I ask him.  "How much longer must we
wait?">
       <He steeples his fingers and touches them to his lips.  "I have begun
to consider ... other options for our crusader.">
       <And suddenly the draft in the castle, which should never have
troubled an immortal, is unbearable on my skin.>
       <"What options?">
       <"I believe ... it is time we enlarged our family.  It is time I had a
son.">
       <It is a long moment before I am able to speak.  "A son?" I ask
finally.>
       <"Yes.  Created in my image.">
       <My voice remains steady.  "Suppose he does not wish to join us.">
       <He caresses my cheek in a rare gesture of tenderness.  "If you apply
yourself, I have every confidence that you will develop a very -- effective
-- method of persuasion.">
       <I stare at the floor, the walls, anywhere but him.  "It shall be as
you desire," I tell him faintly.  He rewards me by brushing his thumb across
my lips.>
       <"I am pleased with you, Janette," he says.  And I wonder if it is
possible to sell one's soul twice.>

       Janette spoke through deadened lips.  "She is trying to help him find
a cure.  Sometimes ... it seems as though they might succeed."  She looked
away.  "He cares about her."
       He smiled.  "There, now.  That wasn't so bad, was it?"  He reached out
and glided a hand over her hair.  "You have been most helpful.  To Nicholas,
as well as to me."
       He left as silently as he had come.  She downed the contents of her
glass, but the blood she had enjoyed moments earlier now seemed cold and
stale.
       Upstairs, The Raven pulsed with fresh life.  Janette picked her way
through the crowd, finally coming to rest at her traditional spot near the
bar.  She leaned back and rested her elbows on the counter's edge, idly
watching the dancers.
       <A glimpse of pale skin and a delicate profile, beautiful and so
young, it could almost belong to a child.>
       Janette blinked, but the image was gone, and in its place was a rather
ordinary looking woman, perhaps a bit on the short side, perhaps sporting an
old-fashioned hairstyle.
       She felt a coldness all the way down to her bones, and shivered.
       "Chilly?"
       Two young men stood at the other end of the bar.  The empty shot
glasses lined up in front of them attested to their state.  The speaker ogled
her unashamedly.
       "Yes," she replied slowly.  "I am a bit chilly."  She stretched her
lips into a seductive smile.

       Lacroix watched as the man's heart, still beating strongly, washed
swallow after swallow down her throat.
       Her fingers speared into his hair, pressing the man closer.  From his
vantage point, Lacroix could see her tongue probing the punctures her teeth
had made in an effort to capture every drop.  Her breathy laugh whispered
moistly over his jugular.
       "Janette!"  He reached out with a cold, strong hand and gripped the
back of her neck, tearing her from her victim's throat.  "Stop this at
_once_!"

                                       End Part Four

                                             Fathers and Sons
                                            (Part Five of Nine)


       <She is locked in his embrace, her tiny frame almost completely hidden
from view.  Her blond locks tumble over his shoulder like a golden
waterfall.>
       <She could be an angel.>
       <His body crumples to the ground, pale and still.  She stands over
him, eyes shining, teeth stained red.  She looks up at me and flashes a
grotesque smile.>
       <"Father.  I would offer you some, but I'm afraid I was greedy and
finished it all myself.">
       <"But --">
       <"You thought to bring him across?  I know.  However, I find I am not
ready to have a brother, Lucius.  I don't want to share you.">
       <"That is not the issue, Divia!"  I kneel at the boy's side.  He is
quite dead, his intriguing, malleable radiance gone forever.  "You should
have bowed to my wishes in this matter.">
       <Her smile disappears.  "Your wishes.  Your rules.  Not mine.  I did
not make them.  I did not choose them."  She drops to her knees beside me and
strokes the boy's hair.  "I'll be no man's Galatea, Father, not even yours.">

       "Janette!  Stop this at _once_!"  Lacroix dragged her from her victim,
holding her still when, in blind reflex, she lunged for blood again.
       The man, and his friend seated quietly in a corner, blinked as though
awakening from a dream.
       "What the hell ...." The first man clapped a hand to his neck, gasping
in horror as he felt the oozing of the two punctures.  Lacroix caught his
gaze.
       "Forget," he told him.  He turned to the second man.  "Both of you."
 Dazed, the two wandered from the room.  Lacroix looked back to Janette.
 "And what is your explanation for what just happened?"
       The hunger raged viciously, her fangs extending even further in search
of the nourishment they had been denied.  She said nothing.
       "I asked you a question."
       Frustration rose in her throat.  "I needed to eat.  That is what you
want, isn't it?  For your children to ... _indulge_ their natures.  That is
what you are always telling Nicolas --"
       "Enough!  I should _not_ have to explain to you the importance of
discretion."  He paused, a thought occurring to him.  "You were responsible
for the disappearance the other night, weren't you?"
       She remained silent and his eyes flared.  "Answer me," he demanded.
       "Yes," she confessed quietly.
       "Janette, that is _unacceptable_!"
       The light in her eyes slowly died.  Her fangs retracted.  "I'm sorry."
       "Do you _want_ to be forced out of this city?"
       "No," she whispered.  "No, I don't want to leave."
       "You are perilously close to that point.  If your own recklessness
results in your banishment, I will watch you go with a _smile_.  Is that
clear?"
       "Yes."
       "Then I expect a more appropriate standard of behaviour."
       She nodded dully.  "Yes, Lacroix."
       "There is a veritable mountain of bottles in the cellar, should you
feel the need for another meal."  He waited.  "You may go now."
       Head bowed, she followed his command.

       Schanke fiddled with the radio in Nick's Cadillac.  The soft strains
of Buddy Holly filled the car.
       "Maybe baby, I'll have you
        Maybe baby, you'll be true ...."
       He hurriedly switched off the music.  Nick grinned.  "Fatherhood
getting you down?"
       Schanke shrugged.  "Myra's going to the doctor tomorrow."
       "And are you okay with this?"
       "I don't know."  He looked out the window at the passing, neon-lit
buildings.  "At first, I told you, I was worried about the money and all, but
now ...." he trailed off.  Nick glanced at him, then back at the road.
       "Now?"
       "I keep thinking about having another kid around."  A smile touched
his features.  "Have you ever seen a newborn baby, Nick?  I gotta tell you,
there's nothing like it ... they're so tiny, so completely dependent on you
for everything.  I mean, here is this little person, and you are totally
responsible.  You're paranoid you'll make a mistake, and you'll ruin their
life, or something.  And you love them so much it hurts, you know?"
       "Sounds good," Nick said softly.
       "Good?  Yeah, I guess so.  And scary.  Man, I have _never_ been so
scared as when I held Jenny in my arms for the first time.  You think chasing
armed criminals is scary -- let me tell you, they've got _nothing_ on kids.
       "So I keep wondering, what it would be like to have another one.
 Maybe a boy this time.  Someone to follow in the old man's footsteps."  His
smiled widened.  "I could -- toss a ball around with him.  Take him fishing.
 My father and I used to go fishing every summer ... I'd like to do that with
my own kid."  He chuckled.  "I could teach him some of his dad's secrets with
women.  Coach Little League.  Oh, don't get me wrong, I love my daughter to
pieces, but -- it would be great to have some more testosterone in the house.
 Defense against Myra and Jenny, because when they team up, oh man ... just
run for cover."
       Nick's brow rose.  "What if it's a girl, Schank?"
       "Oh, that would be nice, too."
       Nick pulled the car into the driveway of the coroner's office.  "Here
we are."
       Schanke started to get out, then turned back as he noticed his
partner's lack of movement.  "You coming?"
       "I'll -- wait outside, if you don't mind."
       Schanke looked at him.  "You and Natalie have a fight or something?"
       "No.  I just feel like being outside right now, that's all."
       "Uh-huh."  He shook his head and climbed out of the car.  "You are one
weird puppy, you know that, Knight?" he muttered as he disappeared inside.
       Nick absently tapped out a beat on the steering wheel as he waited.
       <A sense, a presence, a finger of ice piercing his heart.>
       "Good evening, Nicholas."
       Nick's fingers slowed their tattoo, then stopped.  "Lacroix.  I should
have known."  He turned to face him.
       "Yes, you should have."  Lacroix glanced towards the building.  "And
how is our lovely coroner today?"
       Nick was unable to quench the quick fire that sparked in his eyes.
 Lacroix smiled slowly.
       "Good.  That is _very_ good.  If this continues, it may not be
necessary for me to intervene after all."
       Nick looked away.  "I would never hurt her."
       "Au contraire, Nicholas.  You _must_ hurt her.  It is your nature."
       "I can control my nature."
       "Can you?" Lacroix asked curiously.  "For how long?  It nearly
overwhelms you now, doesn't it?  The lust for death.  You cannot go near her
for fear you may forget yourself."
       Nick shook his head fiercely.  "That's because of _you_, Lacroix.
 It's your violence.  Your _unnatural_ desires."
       "Nicholas, you flatter me.  But I am afraid I cannot take the credit
on this occasion.  It was inevitable that you would eventually begin to
struggle against the shackles this mortal woman has placed on you.  You have
never been able to endure a master."
       "I don't know what you're talking about."
       "And why should you?  No one has ever squandered potential the way you
have done."
       Nick's jaw clenched.  "I don't want to talk about this."
       "There has never been another with a potential as great as yours.  It
is _intolerable_ that you continue to waste it in such a manner."
       "Maybe I don't see myself as 'wasting' it.  Maybe I'm trying to live
up to it."
       "By playing at mortality?  The only potential in that direction,
Nicholas, is for ignominy.  I did not create you for such a purpose."
       "Then why did you create me?"
       Lacroix's eyelids flickered.  "The reasons escape me at the moment.
 Perhaps I wanted ... companionship.  Perhaps I could not bear the thought of
you being wasted among unappreciative humanity."  His voice dropped to a
whisper.  "You _will_ return to me, Nicholas.  It is beginning already.  Your
behaviour towards your coroner should have convinced you of that.  Even from
this distance, you imagine that you can smell her blood, that you can feel
the flutter of her heart."
       Nick drew in a sharp breath.  "I won't ever give in, Lacroix."
       "I believe you will.  And your resistance now will make that moment
all the sweeter."  And then he was gone.
       When Schanke emerged from the building, he found Nick sitting in the
car just as he'd left him, as unmoving as if he'd been frozen in place.
       "Okay," he said, climbing inside.  "Let's go."
       Nick did not move, or even acknowledge his presence.  Schanke frowned.
 "Hey, Nick, are you all right?"
       Nick shook himself.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I'm fine."
       "Are you sure?  You look a little pale -- even for you."
       "I'm fine, Schank," Nick repeated, turning the key in the ignition.
 "I'm fine."

       <A small, childish body, draped in a white, hovering just out of
reach.>
       Janette slowly emerged from her hiding place atop a nearby building to
stare at the figure.
       "Did you see enough?" a rough voice came from behind her.  The specter
vanished.
       "You knew I was watching?" Janette asked.  Lacroix stepped into her
line of vision.
       "You could hardly conceal yourself from me."
       "I thought you were ... distracted."
       "Never too distracted for you, my dear."  He leaned over the rooftop
and peered down at the car that was just pulling away from the curb.  "Ah,
Nicholas.  He tugs and tugs at the leash, but think what he could become were
he to direct those energies more constructively."  He trained his eyes on
Janette.  "You never gave me such trouble."
       She smiled ironically.  "Of course not.  I am -- exactly what you want
me to be."
       Lacroix looked at her sharply, but she said nothing more.  "Quite," he
murmured. "Good night, my dear."  And he disappeared in a flurry of black
cloth.
       A high, young voice spoke when he was gone, "You have his protection."
       Janette's eyes met those of the apparition.  "You have your freedom."
       "You have his love," the image responded.  Janette turned her gaze to
the spot where Nick's car had sat moments earlier.
       "Yes.  I do have that, don't I?"

                                               End Part Five

                                             Fathers and Sons
                                             (Part Six of Nine)


       Tonight, gentle listeners, I offer you a bedtime story to ponder as
you snuggle under the covers, your cold hands warmed by a mug of hot cocoa,
your partner for the evening tucked smotheringly beside you.
       Once upon a time, there lived a young man named Adam and his wife,
 Lilith.  Both had been formed to serve as companions, and students, to their
Creator.  But Lilith was a disobedient daughter, who insisted on certain ...
liberties, while she and Adam were engaged in marital relations.  We need not
dwell on the specific nature of these liberties; I leave it to your
imaginations to supply the details.
       Despite His best efforts, the Creator found that He was unable to
persuade Lilith to withdraw her demands.  So Lilith was banished from the
Garden of Eden, and her descendants are known to us today as werewolves,
vampires, and the like.
       However, Adam found himself longing for a mate.  The Creator, fearing
Adam might forsake the garden, built him a new wife.  Thus came about the
birth of Eve.  And Eve was a good and obedient child, always mindful of her
father's wishes.  Until, of course, one regrettable incident, of which we are
all aware.
       But has no one ever considered whether Eve felt the loss of her
banished sister?  In the dark hours of the night, lying beside the husband
her Creator had arranged for her, did she dwell on how different her life
might have been, had she chosen her sister's path?
       And when Eve yielded to the temptation offered by the serpent, was it
because she found the fruit irresistible?  Or was that small act of defiance
committed in honor, or remembrance, of her rebellious sister?
       One can only speculate.  One can only wonder whether the two were as
different as we imagine.  Like sides of a coin, perhaps each reflected the
possibilities of the other.  Perhaps once the same, they found themselves
split when Eve chose the right fork and Lilith the left.
       If that is indeed the case, I leave you with this final question: What
part of Lilith lives on in Eve?

                                                End Part Six

                                           Fathers and Sons
                                         (Part Seven of Nine)


       "Nick?" Natalie called, sliding open the heavy loft door.  "Nick, are
you here?"
        She spotted him a moment later, huddled at his kitchen table, a
bottle at his elbow.  He moved as if to shield his glass from her view, then
stopped and pulled back defiantly.
       "Your captain said you'd called in sick," Natalie said.  "I suppose
that's one way of putting it."
       "What are you doing here, Nat?"
       "I came to talk to you.  Obviously, you're not in a 'talking' mood.
 No, this looks more like 'wallowing' to me."
       His chair scraped against the floor as he pushed away from the table.
 "I told you to stay away from me."
       Her jaw clenched as she stood her ground.  "It seems like you're the
one staying away from me.  What excuses are you giving Schanke and Cohen for
avoiding the morgue?"
       "Natalie --" he began as she shed her coat.  And then he reeled,
hunching over the table and clutching the back of his chair for support.
 "Nat, please --"
       "What?  Oh."  She tucked the huge silver crucifix into her blouse.
 "Sorry."
       He straightened cautiously.  "That's not going to be enough to protect
you."
       "Stopped _you_ in your tracks, didn't it?"  She sighed.  "I know it's
not much, Nick, but it's all I can think of."
       "It's not safe for you to be here," he told her darkly.  She looked
away.
       "There aren't that many places where I will be safe."
       His eyes narrowed in sudden perception.  "Why did you come?"
       She hesitated.  "I was -- nervous."  She moistened her lips.  "I ...
felt something, tonight at the lab.  Like I was being -- watched.  I know, I
know it was just my imagination, but I didn't want to stay there --"
       He cut her off with a short, bitter laugh.  "It wasn't your
imagination.  It was Lacroix.  He wanted to drive you to me, to taunt me.  To
get me to take you."
       Natalie blinked.  "To get you to ...."
       "He knows I'm close to the edge.  He thinks you'll push me over."
       "Oh."  She ran her tongue along her teeth.  "So now I'm to be used so
that the two of you can get back at each other?  I've got to tell you, Nick,
I don't appreciate being one of the pieces in this little father/son game you
and he play."
       "He makes the rules."
       "No, you _both_ make the rules!"  She clenched her fists in
frustration.   "You and I have known each other for two years, and now
suddenly you're a threat to me because Lacroix says so?  Give me a break!"
       Nick's voice was almost a snarl.  "You don't understand!"
       "Don't I?  I think I understand perfectly.  I think you're _enjoying_
this.  I think you _savour_ this because it gives you an excuse to backslide
--"
       He closed his eyes.  "Nat, you have no idea, _no_idea_, what it's like
for me!  You scold and you criticize and you tell me what to eat, what to
drink -- and you have no _concept_ of what I fight!"  His lids snapped open
again, and he looked at her out of irises that glittered vampirically.
 "_This_ is what I am.  And I'm aware of it every second of every day."
       She drew back, suddenly uncertain.  "You want blood, okay --"
       "No," he growled, "I don't want _blood_.  I want _death_."  In a
heartbeat he had moved so close that his breath brushed her lips.  His eyes
seared into hers.  "Do you understand now?  I want to _kill_ you."
       She was trembling so badly she could barely stand.  "Nick, why -- ?"
       "_Why_?"  He lifted a hand to her hair, and she flinched.  "Because I
care about you, Nat."  His tone was frighteningly reasonable.   "And
sometimes ... I can't _stand_ that."  He sighed.  "I want to kill you.  But I
don't want you to die."
       And from his vantage point above the skylight, Lacroix smiled down at
his son.
       "Good boy, Nicholas," he whispered.  "Good boy."

       <We sit, the two of us, in an empty field beneath a curtain of stars.
 She curls next to me, her head resting on my shoulder, her golden hair
drifting over my back.  I remain absolutely still.>
       <"It is only when I look at the stars that I truly understand what
'forever' means," she says softly.  "Think of it.  We will live to see the
constellations change.">
       <"It is remarkable," I agree.  Something in my voice disturbs her and
she pulls away to examine my face.>
       <"The prospect of endless tomorrows does not excite you?">
       <"Of course it does.">
       <"Then perhaps it is the prospect of spending those days with me that
brings such an edge to your words.">
       <Because I can no longer endure her stare, I tell her, "Better even
than the promise of eternal life, the appeal of this existence is the moment
of possession that comes with the kill.">
       <She looks at me oddly.  "Possession?">
       <"Yes.  That is why we lust for blood, after all.">
       <Her expression is amused.  "Do you think so?">
       <"You do not.">
       <Her laughter tinkles through the night, bringing a hot flush of anger
to my cheeks.  "Oh, Lucius, it always amazes me how you dress everything in
fancy words, like a virgin with her first lover.  You kill what you lust, and
so you twist it in your mind until killing becomes an act of affection.  But
it's very simple, really -- we destroy that which controls us.">
       <"Controls?">
       <"By inspiring our hatred.  Or by inspiring our love.  It isn't about
possession, Lucius -- it is about _annihilation_.  It is about feeling the
strength of an enemy drain away, swallowing his heartbeat, hearing it fade,
until that final moment when we are assured that we will never be dominated
again.">
       <I fall silent.  She inclines her head .  "It's different between us
since I brought you across.  Do you think I can't feel it?">
       <I shake my head at the change of subject.  "This life takes some
adjustment --">
       <"It is more than that."  Her gaze pierces more deeply than her fangs.
 I shrug.>
       <"All right, Divia, I'll admit that I am -- disconcerted, to see my
child so ... hungry.  So ruthless.">
       <"So much like you, General?"  Her eyes widen innocently.  "Or have
you forgotten how you ordered your troops to crush the Gauls?  Is it that you
cannot bear to see such qualities in your child?  Or is it that you cannot
bear to see such qualities in your daughter?">
       <"Divia --">
       <"Or maybe the problem is merely that now you are confused as to the
role I should occupy?  If not daughter, if not mother, then -- what?  What
other possibilities exist for you, Father?">
       <She shifts her weight to her knees, looking at me solemnly, cat-like
in her dispassionate regard.  I stand and move away from her.  "It is time we
fed.  Shall we go to the taverns?">
       <A startlingly youthful smile crosses her face.  "By all means,
Father, let us go to the taverns."  With uncanny grace, she rises and links
her arm through mine.>

       It was near dawn, and Miklos had left for the day.  Janette poured
herself a snack to sip as she completed taking inventory.
       "Poor substitute for a real kill."
       <A little girl, standing in the middle of the dance floor, shining
with a light too brilliant to look upon.>
       Janette cleared her throat.  "He fears a real kill would endanger us."
       "Do you never question what he wants?"
       She smiled a little.  "No."
       "And do you find the sacrifice worth the reward?"
       "I ... suppose I must."
       "Then you must learn to content yourself with bottled sustenance.  If
you can."
       The image vanished as thought it had never been, with only a faint
echo of speech lingering behind: "You must decide.  Can you walk away from
Eden?"
       "Janette," a deeper, masculine voice called.  She turned to see the
tall figure of her master closing the doors of The Raven, shutting out the
first hint of the sun's light.

                                               End Part Seven

                                            Fathers and Sons
                                          (Part Eight of Nine)


       Janette's eyes lit with warmth.  "You are ... spending the day here?"
       "Yes."  Lacroix removed his coat, shaking off some of the rain that
had accumulated in its black folds.  "Bring out one of your finest vintages.
 We have much to celebrate."
       She hastened to do his bidding.  "What's the occasion?"
       He accepted the bottle she handed him and popped the cork.  "Tonight,"
he said as he began to pour, "Nicholas took a major step on the road back to
us."
       Janette could feel her fingers clench around the stem of her glass.
 "Nicolas," she repeated numbly.
       Lacroix smiled.  "Exactly.  For the first time in nearly eight
centuries, he begins to understand what he is."
       Her face froze into blankness.  "That must be very gratifying for
you."
       He paused, his glass midway to his lips.  "But not for you, I gather."
       She hesitated.  "Why can't you just -- leave him be?"
       His eyes narrowed.  "Because he is one of us."
       "He rejected us long ago.  Why do you insist on pursuing him?  Where
are the limits of your patience?"
       Lacroix was silent for a long moment, and when he spoke, his words
came carefully, slowly, his anger resonating through each syllable he
uttered.  "Nicholas has never rejected us.  He is merely searching for
guidance, which I am more than willing to provide.  He does not know what he
wants.  And as for patience," -- the sound of him lowering his glass to the
bar echoed like thunder -- "I have boundless reserves where my children are
concerned."
       From some distant point, she could feel her words coming with a bite
she had never heard before.  "Well.  Not quite boundless for _all_ of your
children, are they?"
       His face darkened with a rage hotter than she had ever seen.  She
watched in horrified fascination as his glass shattered in his hands and he
grasped the edge of the bar with gore-stained fingers.
       "That is something we will _not_ discuss," he whispered.
       "Why not?" she countered, her words more of a plea than a demand.
 "Why not, Lacroix?"
       "Janette, you _will_ obey my wishes in this matter!"
       "I have obeyed you."  The words gushed like blood bursting from an
artery.  "I have always obeyed you, and I am invisible.  But Nicolas, the
more he pulls away, the more you want him!  Why is that, Father?  At least
tell me why!"
       "Nicholas is my _son_ --"
       "And I am your daughter!  Why can't you talk to me about her?  Are you
afraid I'll become like her?  Is that why you never loved me the way you love
him?"
       <"You need someone to love, Lucius, and _I_ need _you_.">
       The burn of the old humiliation was so strong it brought bile to his
throat.  "I made you," he told her raggedly.  "Is that not enough?  I turned
you from a whore into a goddess."
       "Yes."  Red tears dripped down her face.  "And then you saw Nicolas,
and you turned me back into a whore."

       <She stands before me, her hands resting on the great sarcophagus,
watching for my reaction to her confession.>
       <"I've upset you," she says finally.  "I didn't mean to.">
       <Upset me.  What pale words to describe the flooding of emotion as I
realize she has done the unthinkable.>
       <Only not quite so unthinkable any more.>
       <"Does it not trouble you to have killed your own master?" I ask
slowly.>
       <"Why should it?">
       <"He was an ancient.  His knowledge of our past, of our very
beginnings, was worthy of respect!">
       <She grows angry, her eyes flashing with her displeasure.  I try to
soothe her, to avoid this confrontation, but I have never been able to lie to
her.  She demands total honesty.>
       <"Divia, I know I'm here because of you, and I am eternally grateful."
 True enough.  Sometimes I believe I am choking on the gratitude.  "But he
made you!">
       <"He thought he controlled me!"  She is more agitated than I have ever
seen her, that eerie composure finally shattered.  I watch, unable to believe
my eyes.  She is _explaining_ herself to me.  For the first time, she is
seeking my approval for her actions.  My blessing.>
       <What a pity I cannot give it to her.  A daughter should honor her
father.  Revere him.>
       <"I will choose my own way," she utters as though the words were a
prayer.  My disgust must show in my face, because her tone becomes more
desperate.>
       <"Everything we lust after can be ours.  Including love."  Her eyes
light with a blasphemous notion.  "Let us do what must not be done.  Make
love to me, Father.">
       <The obscenity of it, of _her_, sickens me.  Despite our immortal
state, there are standards, there are boundaries, there are lines that should
never be crossed.  There are rules that still apply.>
       <"Divia, no!"  I walk away, inciting her fury.>
       <"Come to me, Lucius, do as I say.">
       <"You're my daughter!"  But the words are meaningless now.  She has
rejected all paternal authority.  And the result is ... unimaginable.>
       <"Daughter.  Mother.  Lover.  Why can't I be all three?">
       <Because we must maintain some semblance of order.  Because we all
have our limits, and we cannot transcend the roles we have been given.
 Because if she does not play out her role, what part am I to take?>
       <"You need someone to love, Lucius, and _I_ need _you_.">
       <My fingers wrap around the handle of a weapon rusting in the corner.
 I turn to growl at her, and my anger only excites her more.>
       <"Yes," she gasps.  "Come, touch me.">
       <I watch her expression change to stunned dismay as I swing the scythe
in final consummation.>

       "I remember," Janette said softly, "I remember once we were riding to
escape a group of men chasing us in the daylight.  I was weak, unable to
continue.  You urged Nicolas to leave me behind.  And I wonder, if it had
been Nicolas who had fallen, would you have left him to die?  Or would you
have risked the sun's rays to save him?"
       Lacroix's eyes smoldered with fury.  He gripped her wrist so tightly
she was sure he would cause her bones to shatter.
       "Twice now," he snarled, "I have failed.  Two daughters have
challenged me.  Two daughters have refused my generosity.  Two daughters have
overstepped the boundaries."
       She swallowed.  "Lacroix --"
       He yanked her close, grasping her hair with his free hand.  "Do you
believe, for one moment, that you could survive without my support?  How long
do think you could manage without my instruction?"
       "I know ... I know that I need you --"
       "No, you do _not_ know!  If you did, you would not defy me in this
manner!  Can it be that you are unaware of just how weak, just how
insignificant you really are?"
       The tears were running freely now.  She moved to brush them away, but
succeeded only in smearing garish streaks across her face.
       "I did not mean -- please, Lacroix, I did not mean to defy you ...."
       "You exist only by my will, my _grace_," he hissed.  "I created you,
and I can grind you into dust without breaking my stride.  You have betrayed
me --"
       "I haven't ...."
       "You reject me --"
       "No, never!"
       "You are a selfish, ungrateful child, who cares for nothing but her
own desires."  He released her and stepped away.  "Go on then, see how well
you function without me."
       "No!" she cried.  She grasped his hand and brought it to her mouth,
lightly brushing her lips over his knuckles.  "I'm -- I'm sorry.  I'm not
ungrateful."  Her voice dropped until it was barely audible, her lips tracing
the words across his skin.  "Don't leave me."
       His eyes locked with hers.  "Your desire shall be to your father,
Janette.  And he shall rule over you."
       "Yes," she breathed.  "Yes."
       He rested a caressing hand on her nape, waiting patiently until her
sobs subsided.  "My relationship with you is not the same as the relationship
I have with Nicholas.  You must accept that.  I will demand the kind of
unquestioning loyalty a child owes her Creator.  And in return, I will care
for you as much as a father can care for his daughter."

                                                  End Part Eight

                                            Fathers and Sons
                                           (Part Nine of Nine)


       "Well?" Nick demanded.  "What happened?"
       Schanke kept his eyes trained on his desk.  "False alarm.  Myra's not
pregnant."
       "Oh."  Nick winced.  "I'm sorry, Schank."
       "Nothing to be sorry about.  It's -- probably better this way.  I
mean, another kid, that would have been a big hassle, right?  The expense,
and the whining, and the fighting, and Myra complaining that she's lost her
figure -- confidentially, Nick, Myra's figure went AWOL years ago -- who
needs that?  No, this is better.  This is definitely better.  I mean, me and
Myra, we never wanted another kid in the first place."
       "I'm glad you're taking it so well."
       "You know, kids -- they can be great, really great, but other times
... other times, they just break your heart."  He nodded firmly.  "It's
definitely better to just -- stick with one."
       He began to flip through the pile of folders on his desk, then paused
mid-shuffle.  "But ... it might have been nice.  Having a son."
       He caught sight of Natalie heading their way and shook himself.
       "Hey."  He stood as she approached.  "What brings you down here?"
       "I'm -- dropping off a few reports."  She carefully kept her eyes away
from Nick.  "Is the captain here?"
       "No, no, she left a little while ago," Schanke answered her.  "I'll
take them."
       "Thanks."  She paused.  "Well, I guess I'd better be going."
       "Nat, wait."  Nick caught up with her just outside the station.  "I
want to apologize for last night.  I don't know --"
       "-- what came over you?" she finished for him, her tone bitter. "It
sounded like honesty to me."
       He shook his head.  "No --"
       "No, it wasn't honest?"
       "No -- I mean, yes, it was, but ... there's more to it than that."  He
took a breath.  "I told you the truth.  But I realized -- it's not a truth I
like.  I don't want to feel that way anymore."
       Her gaze was hard.  "Then that's something you'll have to deal with,
isn't it?"
       "I thought -- I thought it was something that _we_ could deal with."
 He laid a hand on her shoulder.  "Don't give up on me, Nat.  I want to be
human."
       She was silent for a long time.  Finally she closed her eyes and
sighed.  "I won't give up on you.  We'll beat this.  We just -- we have to be
more determined, we have to try harder."  She pulled a notebook out of her
purse.  "I've been trying to come up with a formula that will help you
replenish your proteins faster.  If you come by the morgue later we can try
it out."
       Nick tore his gaze from the pulse that beat in her neck.  "Sure, Nat.
 Later."

       They stood at the bar, staring at each other, their eyes cold as ice.
       "You have not won," Nick said.  "And you will not.  I won't take her.
 And I will become human again."
       "And I, dear Nicholas, will enjoy watching you eat those words.
 Literally."
       Janette's gaze glided first to one, then to the other.
       There is a morality, Nick would say.  There are lines that should not
be crossed.  There are rules.
       Not for us, Lacroix would say.  For us, Nicholas, there are no rules
at all.
       And what would Janette say?
       <"You must decide.  Can you walk away from Eden?">
       Janette would remain silent.  As always.

                                                         End